The Redhunter

by William F. Buckley

  “What he said isn’t so much colorful as apocalyptic. Brace yourself: ‘One of the characteristic elements of Communist and fascist theory is at hand, as citizens are set to spy upon each other. Established and responsible government is besmirched. Religion is set against religion, race against race. Churches and parties are split asunder. All is division and confusion. Were the junior senator from Wisconsin in the pay of the Communists he could not have done a better job for them.’ ”

  “Oh, my goodness, Sam.” Ed Reidy began to laugh at the display of rhetorical temper, but stopped. He simply repeated himself. “Oh, my goodness.”

  “Yeah, I feel the same way. Some of the enemies of McCarthy will, if possible, manage to outdo McCarthy. You saw where Robert Hutchins said that under McCarthyism it requires an act of physical courage to give money to Harvard?”

  “No. I’ll note that. … Has Joe come back at Flanders? How can they sit in the same chamber? Granted, Vermont is a fairly long way from Wisconsin, but they are in the same country. Did Joe respond?”

  “Joe never lets us down. Hang on. …” Sam went through his notes. “Here it is: ‘I think they should get a man with a net and take him to a good quiet place.’ ”

  “I’d say Joe won that exchange. But he’s not going to win the big one, the one with Ike.”

  “No—here’s another one, just handed to me. Senator Alexander Smith of New Jersey. Not long ago Smith was pleading with Joe to cooperate with the GOP. Lemme see, Smith is … ‘deeply shocked,’ … he reads it as ‘a defiance of the executive in crisis.’ … Hold on. It gets better: ‘We cannot tolerate one-man government either in the executive or in our legislative body.’ ”

  “You think Joe’s going down?”

  “I think he was a real asshole on this one, Ed. I mean, he’s had the whole liberal world to fight. He’s only been a national presence for three years. Why throw the gauntlet at Ike? Among other things, Ike’s the most popular man in America, after John Wayne and Arthur Godfrey. Is the old man going to call in his troops and give them marching orders? President/General Eisenhower knows how to do that. … How are you going to handle it on the editorial page? Or is your old man going to call in and give orders?”

  “If Mr. Pulliam gives me orders, I’ll follow them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the boss—Mr. Pulliam, sir—did call me about this one. I’ll wait till the last minute to write the editorial. If you want to get me with anything more you can reach me till seven-thirty. Make that seven-twenty-nine.”

  Then Ed Reidy and Sam Tilburn went into their daily act, an exaggerated imitation of NBC superstar nightly newsers Chet Huntley and David Brinkley.

  “Good night, Ed.”

  “Good night, Sam.”

  They both audibly and noisily wept, regularly amusing editorial hands working at close quarters with them, at the terrible prospect of going an entire day until their next telephone conversation.

  54

  McCarthy questions General Zwicker

  The officer who had alerted Roy Cohn to the problem at Fort Monmouth in New Jersey was a brigadier general. He had given Roy Cohn several leads, the most explosive of which, in a matter of weeks, gave way to a bumper-sticker size question intended to intone dark, subversive activity within the heart of the United States Army. The words were: WHO PROMOTED PERESS? Tens of thousands of the stickers were made, distributed, and exhibited. One partisan, carrying a sign with those three words emblazoned on cardboard four feet high, six feet long, walked solemnly for a day up and down Pennsylvania Avenue, opposite the White House.

  Peress? Irving Peress was a dentist, an army officer, and—a member of the Communist Party. A hidden member of the party? No, not really. When questioned about it by Fort Monmouth army intelligence he did not hide his membership. The questions that subsequently arose were: How was it that he was a) then promoted (to major, from captain); and b) honorably discharged? (The Communist Party having been declared hostile to the government of the United States, membership in it entailed a discharge from the Army “without honor.”)

  Dr. Peress did not tranquilize the situation when, asked by a reporter whether he was still a member of the Communist Party, he declined to answer the question, giving rise to the assumption that yes, he was still a Communist.

  One month after McCarthy’s open invitation to federal employees to give information to congressional committees, Roy Cohn advised the general who had alerted the committee to the security delinquencies at Monmouth that the time had come to give formal testimony, giving him, by telegram, the date on which the hearing would be held. General Zwicker wired back that, after all, he could not testify—because of the presidential ban on testimony to legislative agencies by federal personnel on security matters. General Zwicker had been reminded by John Adams, counsel to the army, of the presidential directive.

  Cohn put in a call to the general. He told him he could not possibly get away with any such a defiant act of “disloyalty.” He then telephoned McCarthy, who was in New York to visit with Jeanie. The McCarthys had taken a weekend vacation in Mexico with tycoon Clint Murchison and Hollywood actor Ward Bond. Returned to New York, McCarthy was off to Monmouth, and Jean’s taxi was hit, her ankle broken. The next day, McCarthy sent her to the hospital. She was now immobilized. McCarthy had a further medical objective, to seek fresh medical advice about his own recurrent problem, inflamed sinuses.

  “Zwicker thinks,” Cohn said, “he can just back off the whole thing, pleading the executive order. I think you should get in there and let him have it.”

  McCarthy told Cohn to call a meeting of the committee for the afternoon of the following day to advise General Zwicker to be there unless he wanted to receive a subpoena. McCarthy would arrive in Washington on the ten A.M. Eastern flight. “Tell Harry to meet me,” he instructed Mary Haskell. “Roy will be tied up getting ready for the closed session. I got to get Harry going on my speech for tonight.” McCarthy would return to New York to speak to the East Side Republican Club. “I want to talk to Harry about that speech and a lot of other things.”

  Harry was waiting at the Eastern Airlines terminal. He was not surprised by the appearance at the gate of reporters there to wrest something from Joe McCarthy, anything, preferably about the hostile reception given to his Come-All-Ye-Faithful invitation (as the radio wags were calling it) to two million federal employees. But Harry was surprised and dismayed by Joe’s appearance. Harry had seen him only three days earlier. Now Joe’s beard was a day old, his hair seemed thinner and looked as if plastered over his head. His eyes were droopy. At close quarters one could hear him wheeze as he struggled with his sinus. At very close quarters Harry could smell the whiskey.

  Joe extruded a smile for the reporters and gave them a wave of the hand. “Sorry, gents. Got a committee meeting waiting for me. Can’t keep my fellow senators waiting!” Another wave and he shuffled out, following Harry to the waiting car, his wedding-gift Cadillac.

  “Joe,” Harry spoke in the car, “you’re not keeping any senators waiting, because nobody else is going to be there this afternoon.”

  Joe had become accustomed to boycotts and threats of boycotts by the Democratic members, Symington, Jackson, and McClellan, even to persistent absences by the overburdened Everett Dirksen, with his legion of fishes to fry; but he was surprised that his fellow Republicans Charles Potter and Karl Mundt would be absent.

  “To hell with them. Zwicker’s all I care about. I’m going to ask him some hard questions, playing with us this way. Roy’s quite right. Zwicker complains to us about the security at Monmouth and now he wants presidential protection to keep him from testifying.”

  Harry said, “You know, General Zwicker’s from Wisconsin.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Stoughton. He did a year at the University of Wisconsin before West Point. … Do you know about his war record, Joe?”

  McCarthy shook his head—”Turn down the heat, Jeremiah,” he called out to the driver. They were traveling slowly in th
e light snowfall, crossing the Memorial Bridge. “What did you say, Harry?—You know, I think you’d better come up to New York with me after the hearing. I’ll have to speak off the cuff to the East Side Republicans. We can discuss what to say on the plane. My sinus is awful.” He reached into his briefcase and brought out a flask. “Slug?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Joe McCarthy took a deep swallow, shook his head vigorously, and drew a deep breath through his nose. “There. That’s better. You wanted to tell me?—”

  “About the war record, Zwicker’s. I have it here.” He reached in his pocket for a 3x5 card.

  “Ralph Zwicker served with the infantry in Normandy, in northern France, in the Ardennes, the Rhineland, and central Europe. His decorations include the Silver Star, the Legion of Merit with Oak Leaf Cluster, the Bronze Star with two Oak Leaf Clusters, Arrowhead, the British Distinguished Service Order, and the French Legion of Honor and Croix de Guerre with Palm. After the war he graduated from the National War College.”

  “Good man. Should know better than to surrender this late in life.”

  Harry said nothing. He let Joe talk about the assorted concerns—would Tom Coleman be sore if he and Jeanie canceled the weekend invitation? Did Harry know anything about a planned program by Edward R. Murrow, “He won’t be very friendly, I suspect.” Harry permitted himself one last sally as they walked up the stairs of the Senate Office Building. “Joe, this is executive session, I know, which provides some protection, but don’t go overboard—”

  “I appreciate the care you take of me, kid. I mean that.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Harry.”

  The examination of General Zwicker began. Harry was seated on McCarthy’s left, Cohn on the right. Harry was silent throughout the session.

  Roy whispered continuously in Joe’s ear after, it seemed, every answer by the witness. Harry couldn’t hear the words uttered, but he knew instantly the sense of them because McCarthy was bearing down on the witness, grinding away, just one senator, the others all absent, sitting opposite the general and his two aides, asking the same question, sometimes reworded, more often not, bringing his clenched hand down on the table. Would it ever, ever end, Harry wondered?

  Finally it did.

  McCarthy seemed to have forgotten that he had asked Harry to go to New York with him—he was engrossed with Roy Cohn. When the committee session ended, Mary Haskell approached McCarthy from her staff seat. Harry heard McCarthy outline his travel plans. Roy would accompany him to New York, he heard him say. There was no mention of Harry. Harry rose quickly and preceded Joe and Roy out of the chamber. Briefcase in hand, he walked the nine blocks to his house. When he got there, he went to the liquor closet, poured out and drank a large jigger of vodka. Impulsively he went to the telephone and dialed Sam Tilburn.

  “Sam, is there anything out on the wire about the Zwicker meeting this afternoon?”

  “Not a thing. Want to tell me about it, Harry?”

  “No. But Sam—” Harry had to talk to someone, someone he knew and trusted; someone who would be familiar with the general scene “—are you free for dinner?”

  “Yuh.” Sam was a little surprised, but he liked Harry. Besides, Harry kept hot company. “I could arrange that. Would have to be after seven.”

  “That’s good. I want to pick something up to bring along, and it won’t be ready till then. Let’s say seven-forty-five, at the Monocle.”

  Harry put down the phone. His head was churning. He poured another vodka, this time carefully measuring the amount. Without giving thought to what he was doing he reached into the cavity in his briefcase reserved for a very private document that reposed there even if months went by without his fondling it. He pulled out the letter he was looking for. He had found it in his mailbox, hand delivered, when he reached the apartment after the terrible meeting in New York with his mother.

  It was a single sentence, written in light ink across a page of plain paper.

  I will always love you as a brother.

  Robin

  He stifled a sob.

  He had removed her picture from his apartment and destroyed a half-dozen letters, love notes, really, she had written to him during those golden months. When he returned to Washington from the evening with his mother and found her letter, his wretchedness had kept him all but immobile the following day. He managed a single call to Mary Haskell. He thought to write to her but knew he couldn’t match the weight of her single line. The best he could think to do was to resolve not to play in his memory his days, and nights, with her. He prayed for powers to forget. But he could not dispose of the letter, which would lie always in that little cavity in his briefcase.

  He had fifteen endless minutes to kill before the office would be ready with the transcript he wanted, to read, to check out with the nightmare of that afternoon.

  He found himself unaccountably wondering with odd desperation how to make fifteen minutes go by.

  The idea came to him suddenly. He reached for his telephone and dialed the number in New York of Willmoore Sherrill.

  Time always flew, in conversations with Willmoore.

  Sam Tilburn was known to his colleagues as a conscientious and accomplished journeyman. He never sought by-line treatment, though often his name was placed on top of his dispatches by the editor. He was unhesitating in the amplitude of his reporting and resolutely committed to impartiality—opinion was for the editorial pages; a very different thing. Ed could do the editorializing. When off duty, Sam was diffident and unassertive, a patient, undemanding listener. When he lost his leg at age seventeen, he thought himself too disfigured to woo a wife, and by the time he had acquired the physical self-confidence that permitted him to fly with test pilots to write their story, or dive deeply with submariners to document their long ordeals, he had passed the age for romance. He lived sedately, sharing an apartment with a widowed sister.

  Sam would never, answering such a call as he had had from Harry Bontecou and meeting him for dinner, precipitate an agenda. Let Harry do whatever he wanted to do in his own way, at his own speed.

  Harry held back, sharing a bottle of wine, until after they had both finished their steak, and ordered ice cream and coffee.

  “Sam, I want to share something with you, but it’s got to be off the record.”

  “That’s always okay, Harry. The usual rules: If I learn about it elsewhere, I’m not under any constraint.”

  Sam would need no briefing about the background of General Zwicker or about the morning paper’s reports on the general’s impending collision with the McCarthy committee this afternoon.

  “I’ve got the transcript of what happened today. I’ve marked the passages I want you to read. The first is Joe—McCarthy—talking. Joe talking after the general said he couldn’t testify because of the presidential directive.

  “Joe says,” Harry looked down at the typescript and read, “ ‘Don’t be coy with me, General. … Don’t you give me double-talk. I am going to keep you here as long as you keep hedging and hawing.’ Now read from there—” he handed over the text.

  Sam took it and elected to read the passages out loud. He did so in a soft monotone, barren of any expression, as though he were dictating into a recording machine.

  General Zwicker: I am not hedging.

  The Chairman: Or hawing?

  General Zwicker: I am not hawing, and I don’t like to have anyone impugn my honesty, which you just about did.

  The Chairman: Either your honesty or your intelligence; I can’t help impugning one or the other.

  The general had not replied.

  McCarthy continued.

  The Chairman: If there was a general—this is hypothetical—who consented to the promotion of a Communist officer and allowed his honorable discharge, would you think such a general was incompetent and ought to be discharged?

  General Zwicker: I don’t think I fully understand the question.

  The Chairman: You are ordered to answer it, General. You are an emp
loyee of the people.

  General Zwicker: Yes, sir.

  The Chairman: You have a rather important job. I want to know how you feel about getting rid of Communists.

  General Zwicker: I’m all for it.

  The Chairman: All right. You will answer that question unless you take the Fifth Amendment. I do not care how long we stay here, you are going to answer it.

  General Zwicker: Do you mean how I feel toward Communists?

  The Chairman: I mean exactly what I asked you, General, nothing else. And anyone with the brains of a five-year-old child can understand that question. The reporter will read it to you as often as you need to hear it so that you can answer it, and then you will answer it.

  General Zwicker: Start it over, please.

  (The question was reread by the reporter.)

  General Zwicker: I do not think he should be removed from the military.

  The Chairman: Then, General, you should be removed from any command. Any man who has been given the honor of being promoted to general and who says, ‘I will protect another general who protected Communists,’ is not fit to wear that uniform. General, I think it is a tremendous disgrace to the army to have this sort of thing given to the public. I intend to give it to them. I have a duty to do that. I intend to repeat to the press exactly what you said. So you know that. You will be back here, General. This time at a public hearing, on Tuesday.

  Sam Tilburn finished the droning recitation and resumed his normal voice. The ice cream was untouched, the coffee was getting cold.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I—I don’t know. But the idea is coming to me.”

  “You or Cohn?”

  “Me or Cohn.”

  Back in the apartment he felt a great relief. Sam had served as an older brother. Harry had wrenched out of himself the necessary conclusion of the steps that led to it. Willmoore used to quote the philosopher, “Who says A, must say B.”